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<title>Are We Out of the Woods, Yet? by WhumpTown</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999374">Are We Out of the Woods, Yet?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown'>WhumpTown</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>? - Freeform, Angst, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Guns, He might not be, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure if he'd dead or not, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:46:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a shuddering moment, soaked in the rain. </p><p>“John, please.”</p><p>The hammer strikes, the gun fires.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Arroyo &amp; Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright &amp; Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright &amp; JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright &amp; Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Are We Out of the Woods, Yet?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am not responsible for myself or my actions it's 3:30 in the mornings</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> <b>“You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.”</b> </em> <b> -Ernest Hemingway</b></p><p>The rain comes down hard overhead. He’s drenched, standing in the pouring downfall shivers wracking his thinning frame. The cold New York air blows past him, freezing his soaked clothes to his chest. “Do it!” His voice cracks, emotion swelling in his throat. “Please.”</p><p>Thunder cracks overhead, lighting the dark sky with color. For a moment, he’s just a silhouette in the woods. Less than a man soaked to the bone, lost in the woods with a gun pointed to his head. He shivers as a cool breeze blows past. He sobs, knees caving ever so slowly beneath his weight. Too weak to hold himself upright. “Just do it,” he pleads. He’s tired of this game. “Just do it, John.”</p><p>John shakes his head, denying Malcolm something as simple as death. All he has to do is pull the trigger, end it. “Admit it, Malcolm.” John has the power, the trigger he ever so carefully wraps his forefinger around. He blinks rain from his eyes, smiling as the sky lights up with blue lightning. “You have to admit it.”</p><p>Three weeks. <em>Admit it</em>. A hot hand wrapped around his throat, John’s breath on his face. <em>Admit it</em>. The knife in his side, twisted as John pulls it out. <em>Admit it</em>. John taking the sandwich from Malcolm’s hands, steeled toe boot caving Malcolm’s chest in. <em>Admit it</em> or don’t eat. <em>Admit it</em> and die.</p><p>He’s starving, ribs protruding from his chest. His clothes are filthy, hanging from his lanky limbs. By now, he imagines he’s gone down so many sizes he’ll never fit into his old suits again. By now, the others are looking for his body. They’ve come to terms that after seventy-two hours they’d probably never find him but it’s been three weeks.</p><p>They’re not even looking for <em>him</em> just a body. Something to place in a coffin.</p><p>“What do you want me to admit?” His blood stains the rain on his face a muddy crimson. He’s done. He can’t keep doing this. “I’ll admit it, just…” each breath hurts, each harder than the last. “Just tell me.”</p><p>He’ll have a closed casket. His mother will start pouring his trust fund into helping victims <em>just like him</em>. She’ll sob over his tombstone, too drunk to pick what words he’s earned to mark his limited time walking this world.</p><p><b></b> <strong></strong><em>Malcolm Whitley<br/>November 12, 1988<br/>May 4, 2020</em></p><p>Will they be able to stomach even that? Or will they lie? Attempt some word count like the more positive the words read the better he was. Beloved. Kind. Gone too soon.</p><p>Will Gill deliver the eulogy? Choking on tears and shaking. Or will it be Ainsley whose college education was spent preparing for things like this? Her voice won’t even tremor, he imagines, as a single tear slips down her face. She’ll be furious. She’ll never forgive him.</p><p>Gil has Dani now. He’s not completely alone. They’ll be okay. Someone else will bring Dani Earl Grey when she’s sad. Someone else can work with them.</p><p>JT-</p><p>JT has his baby. A child Malcolm will never get to the know the name of. Was he important enough for them to tell the baby about him? Will he be painful, so painful his name just stops coming into the conversation.</p><p>Is a man even real if his name no longer exists?</p><p>“Only you know your sins, Malcolm.” John tilts his head, all the inclination Malcolm needs to know that John has the answer. “Confess and all will be forgiven.”</p><p><em>Forgiven</em>. How does it feel to be forgiven? This, the gut rot and weakness eating his body whole, does not feel like forgiveness. It feels like greeting death with a ragged plea, cutting his fingers on that scythe, and being rejected like this is junior prom.</p><p>Malcolm holds his head up, trembling numb. “I confess,” he breathes. A sob tears from his throat, he does not want John’s forgiveness. He wants penance and life. A second chance to make it all right. He’d hug his mother more often. Thank his sister for always believing in him. He’d take Gil out for a drink, tell him that he’s been the only father figure Malcolm could ever really look up to. If he could get off this ground, he’d buy JT and Tally a dinner wherever they wanted. He’d play with Sunshine more. Eat more Twizzlers. Kiss Dani.</p><p>He’s kiss Dani.</p><p>“I haven’t honored my father,” his shoulder’s jerk out of his control. He’s slipping, dying.</p><p>John nods and Malcolm’s glad he fits the crime. “What is your punishment, Malcolm? How can you repent, boy?”</p><p>“Do it. I’m not afraid,” he begs, just get it over with. Don’t make him use the Bible or pray to a God he’s never understood. “Just kill me!”</p><p>John shakes his head, lowering the gun. “You’re not ready,” he declares stepping towards Malcolm. Going to gather him up and take him back to the cabin.</p><p>“NO!” Malcolm gathers all his strength putting the space John’s step took back between them. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head. He can’t do it, he can’t do it again. He knows what comes next. John’s hand in his hair, pulling him like a disobedient dog while his feet bleed on the ground. He’s never fast enough for John’s pace.</p><p>Then comes the bath. John says it will help. It will heal Malcolm but each time John dunks his head into the water Malcolm loses his will to keep going just a little more. He can’t.</p><p>“M-Mathew, uh, fif-fifteen: four,” Malcolm closes his eyes. His mother thought learning scripture would save their souls. He hopes he dies and she never learns that his death was because he did as she asked. Attempting to cure his mental illnesses with the Bible and God. “Honor your father and mother and anyone who curses his father or mother must be put to death.”</p><p>Malcolm sobs pathetically when John grabs his hair anyway. Grip firm, John pulls Malcolm back to where he was. To his execution block. “You’ve been so good, Malcolm.” Malcolm shudders as the gun trails against his skin, the cold metal framing his face. “So good for me, Malcolm.”</p><p>He takes in a shuddering breath when John steps back. “John,” he begs but not for his life. “Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I fought but don’t tell them I cried.” His voice cracks as the gun raises to take aim. John’s taking this all in but to him, it’s proof of Malcolm’s crimes. Proof of his sin. “Tell them… tell her I love her.”</p><p>There’s a shuddering moment, soaked in the rain.</p><p>“John, please.”</p><p>The hammer strikes, the gun fires.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>:)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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